


What You Don't Know

by FromFanToStan



Category: One Direction (Band), zayn malik - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Blood Play, Blow Jobs, Bottom Harry, Bottom Zayn Malik, Crossdressing Kink, Cutting, Dark Harry, Dark Zayn, Dom/sub, Feels, Gender Issues, Heavy Angst, It has a bit more plot than expected, M/M, Power Play, Top Harry, Top Zayn, pwp basically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-06-25 20:22:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19753165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromFanToStan/pseuds/FromFanToStan
Summary: Zayn is many things: a talented 21 year old art student, a loving son and brother, a loyal friend, gay, Harry Styles’s sort of boyfriend. Everyone in his life knows about these things. No one knows everything.This work is on hiatus, hopefully not for as long as One Direction.





	1. Sweet Relief

**Author's Note:**

> Major trigger warning. Harry finds Zayn cutting, and it turns them both on. That's it, basically.

_Zayn is many things: a talented 21 year old art student, a loving son and brother, a loyal friend, gay, Harry Styles’s sort of boyfriend. Everyone in his life knows about these things. No one knows everything._

Zayn loves pretty, feminine underwear. In order to accommodate his male parts, he will buy a size large enough for his package and then take them in for his narrow hips. Once they are perfectly fitted, he likes the way the stretch lace moves and accommodates him, and because they are pretty he feels pretty. He imagines wearing silky slips, maybe growing his hair out, painting his lips a deep red, embracing a delicate side of himself that could stop struggling to make it as an artist. He is tired most of the time these days, and he longs to rest even as his schedule quickens in its demands.

Some days he is at the studio painting until late, Louis his mostly good natured model, and he wears his fancy underthings, feeling the difference rubbing against his cock all night. Every time, he has to masturbate furiously as soon as he gets home, quietly though, so as not to wake any of his three roommates. It is delicious. Harry would love to know, would buy Zayn real silk panties made just for him, and then would ruin them, mouthing and licking hotly at Zayn’s cock through the cool silk, driving both of them crazy until Harry tears them off at last. It would be sexy, but Zayn never tells him about this interest of his. He is Harry’s secret, so he wants secrets of his own.

Instead, he indulges on his nights at home. He never goes out anymore, and whether it is because Harry gets too jealous and punishes Zayn in ways that he likes a little too much, or, worse, says, “Of course, Zayn, you should do as you like, go on then,” and then doesn’t call him for days at a time, it is all exquisite torture, and Zayn is careful not to give his torturer any more tools than he already has. He both wants to feel helpless before Harry’s strength and wants to defy him, to make him pay for some sin Zayn can’t quite define. Sometimes it’s enough to wear lingerie. Sometimes he needs more, when the pain of being with Harry is more than a momentary pleasure can disguise.

So, it is inevitable that Harry will catch him, and afterwards he can’t say if it is what he wants or what he fears. He is working late in the studio, refining a study of Louis that his prof wants to enter in a competition. Zayn is tired of poverty, especially with his glimpses into a world of luxury and comfort. Winning the competition would mean a lot--maybe everything. Maybe he won’t be so dependent on Harry if he wins.

Every night this week he has been working late, and Harry has been out, at parties and openings. Sometimes he calls Zayn late, slurring “Baby, I miss you so much. I want to fuck you. If I can’t fuck you I’ll have to fuck somebody else. There’s been a cute blonde twink/handsome graying older man/hot as hell rock musician giving me the eye all night.”

“Harry, you will do what you do. Use protection,” Zayn answers wearily every time. Harry loves to threaten him, and so far he hasn’t meant it. 

“Ok, Zayn,” and then Harry’s voice always lowers.

“Imagine me fucking the twink/older man/rock star and thinking of you.” 

Zayn can imagine easily. He visualizes Harry in his Gucci suit, custom fitted to his slim frame, slamming the twink against a wall before he takes him or letting himself be slammed against the wall as the wealthy older man or the rock star yanks down those custom pants to expose Harry’s beautiful ass. Zayn imagines it all.

Jesus. Zayn can’t remember anymore why he started this thing with Harry. He’s always wanting something he can’t have and always hurting. He wants to work it out with physical pain. He needs it. He’ll have it. It doesn’t depend on Harry.

He finishes up with Louis and endures his jeers when he refuses to go for beer. He says he has to clean up the studio, and that maybe he’ll come later, but it isn’t true. Zayn has something else to do.

He is alone in the studio. There are always instruments of pain in an art studio; anyone knows that. He finds a clean, new exacto knife that someone will be using to cut canvas in the next few days. It will work well for his purposes.

Carefully he pulls his jeans down to his knees: no need to undress for what he has in mind. He sees that his cock is already half hard, and he pulls the lacy pants down so that his cock is free and more importantly so are his hips. He makes careful light cuts in the soft skin on the sides of either hipbone and watches, fascinated, as drops of blood appear along each line. Immediately something inside him eases. Maybe just one more pair of cuts, for symmetry. This time he makes them in the crease of hip and thigh, where he will open them every time he moves, where they will remind him regularly of what he did tonight and how it made him feel. This time he must have been less attentive; the blood immediately wells up and trickles slightly down his leg. He feels tears trickle down his cheeks at the same time. It feels so good, so right.

“Zayn, what are you doing?” He hears Harry’s sharpest voice, but even though he knows Harry is at the door to the studio, that he has used the key Zayn gave him months ago when they were new and Zayn had such high hopes, the sound seems far away. He is floating on a wave of endorphins, free from the anxiety and emotional turmoil of the last months. And then he is jarred back into the present by the feel of Harry’s tongue lapping at his groin.

A wave of shame and arousal sweeps over Zayn as he feels the pressure of Harry’s tongue in the soft crease between his thigh and groin. Harry’s breath moves his pubic hair slightly, and he groans. Harry moves his mouth over Zayn’s cock and applies suction. He alternates between sucking the blood from the cuts Zayn made and sucking Zayn’s cock. He is attentive to the sensitive area just under the head, but it is his warm tongue lathing his cuts that touches Zayn in a way that makes him feel more vulnerable and more sensual than he’s ever been, ever. A few minutes later, Zayn is coming, hard, Harry’s nose buried in his pubic hair, and then Harry is holding him and stroking him. He lets him, lets himself feel cared for and even loved, in the moment. Harry murmurs into his hair, “My lovely Zayn, I knew you wanted looking after. I’m going to look after you.”

Zayn wonders vaguely what Harry means, but he burrows into Harry’s side. He knows this is wrong, that Harry can’t be trusted with this responsibility, but he wants very much to give it to him.

  
  



	2. Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For weeks, Harry is different with Zayn. If he still introduces Zayn as “my good friend, Zayn, a talented artist,” when on the rare occasion he takes Zayn to openings and parties, then Zayn guesses that what happens in private makes up for it. No more making Zayn kneel on the marble of his penthouse floor for an hour if he’s been five minutes late; whenever he arrives, Harry draws him close and murmurs in that honeyed voice of his, “It’s so good to see you, baby. You look so good. Have you been good?”
> 
> Zayn and Harry's relationship seems to enter a new phase, but maybe there's really nothing new under the sun.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: not my characters, just borrowed them, only the plot belongs to me

For weeks, Harry is different with Zayn. If he still introduces Zayn as “my good friend, Zayn, a talented artist,” when on the rare occasion he takes Zayn to openings and parties, then Zayn guesses that what happens in private makes up for it. No more making Zayn kneel on the marble of his penthouse floor for an hour if he’s been five minutes late; whenever he arrives, Harry draws him close and murmurs in that honeyed voice of his, “It’s so good to see you, baby. You look so good. Have you been good?”

And then Harry gently asks Zayn to strip off everything, so that he can check Zayn for evidence of cutting. Zayn doesn’t want to do it, but Harry wanting to do it is thrilling. Zayn feels seen and cared for, which is, he thinks, Harry’s intent, so he obediently strips off everything, hands it to Harry, who folds it neatly and places it on the chair next to the side table, until Zayn’s bare feet are on the cold marble, he is shivering slightly, and Harry himself kneels to run his delicate, long fingers over Zayn’s feet and legs, to caress his perineum and crack, to run a quick palm over his by-now erect cock, to smooth his hands against Zayn’s sides and back and tummy and chest, and then finally to look close at Zayn’s neck and face, before smiling into his eyes and saying, “You’ve been such a good boy, haven’t you? Good boys get rewarded.”

And then he sweeps Zayn up in his arms and carries him into the master bedroom, where the Egyptian cotton sheets are already turned down, waiting for him. By now Zayn’s eyes are full of tears, but he never knows if they’re of shame or joy. What is this, to be taken care of in this way, with this degree of scrutiny? It makes Zayn swoon; it makes him want to run away. Mostly it makes him hard.

During those halcyon weeks, Harry doesn’t tie Zayn to the bedposts or edge him to the point of screaming. He turns Zayn on his stomach and runs his fingernails lightly over Zayn’s bum, and then he takes his thumbs and squeezes into Zayn’s cheeks, and then he parts his cheeks and sighs into Zayn’s hole, “Look how pretty you are, even here, baby. You make my cock so hard. I want to lick you out for just a bit, get you good and relaxed before I fuck you. Is that okay, baby?” 

Harry has never asked permission. If he had, he would have heard what he hears now: “Yes, Harry, yes, please, please fill me up, I love how you feel inside me.” It’s true; Zayn does love it. He always has. It keeps him coming back, that moment when Harry presses inside him, and he is full and whole.

And then the night comes when Zayn has arrived on time, breathless, and he is wearing Harry’s favorite red henley, his favorite black skinnies, underneath the latest pair of silk pants that Zayn had accurately predicted Harry would buy him, and he has put just the lightest touch of kohl around his eyes and the very lightest touch of tinted gloss on his lips, and Harry opens the door. His eyes widen just a bit, and instead of making Zayn strip in the hall he takes him to the bedroom right away.

The lights are out, but the curtains covering the floor to ceiling windows are open, and the city lights and London Eye cast bright lights into the room. Harry is wearing a dressing gown, which he immediately slips from his shoulders. His cock is already hardening, and Zayn thinks, _ I do this, I made him hard like this _ . For the first time, Harry is naked before Zayn, and he takes Zayn’s hands and runs them over his silky skin, his long arms and broad shoulders, his sensitive nipples, his plump bum, his crack, his perineum, and finally his cock. 

“See what you do to me, baby?” Harry whispers. “You’re fully clothed, and you do this to me. But tell me something. Have you been good?”

“Yes, Harry. I’ve been good all week. I haven’t even wanked, waiting for you.”

“No, baby, I don’t want you to suffer. Make love to your body--it excites me to think of you stroking yourself and thinking of me. Never hold back.”

And with that, Harry slowly begins the process of undressing and inspecting Zayn, more thoroughly than usual, making of it sensual massage, and including Zayn’s armpits, his earlobes, his scalp, until Zayn is nude and trembling, waiting for Harry to move him to the bed and fill him up.

“Baby, there’s one more thing. Did you put on a little makeup for me tonight?”

Zayn flushes, fights the impulse to run out of the room, nakedness be damned, to be anywhere else but here. It’s enough that he knows about the lacy pants. He doesn’t know about Zayn’s other desires, and even if he’s under Harry’s spell, even if he’s luxuriating in these days of sweetness and care, he still knows enough, still has enough of a survival instinct, to know not to confess his other fantasies to Harry. Not yet.

“I did. I thought you might like it, me looking a bit fancy.” He looks up at Harry, with a question in his eye and the exit in his heart, but Harry only smiles and says, “I do. I’d like you in full makeup, babe. Your face is perfect anyway, but made up? Just for me?” Harry shakes his head, as if overwhelmed at the thought.

“Tell you what we’re going to do, baby. You’re going to put those glossed up lips on my cock until it’s glistening, and then I’m going let you fuck me. What do you think about that?”

Zayn doesn’t know what he thinks. Of course, he wants to, of course he does. It’s always the same, their sex, always Harry who does the fucking and Zayn who receives, and it’ll be good to try something different. He likes being filled up, though, and he likes receiving when he’s in his lacy pants as he is tonight. He wants to be taken more than to take, but he doesn’t know how to tell Harry this, so he accepts his offering as the gift it is. He sinks to his knees and leaves his red-tinted gloss on Harry’s cock, and then he coats his own with the lube always to be found in the bedside table drawer. He rubs a lube-coated finger up and down Harry’s crack and gasps when Harry arches his back and lifts his bum off the bed to meet Zayn’s finger. He clearly wants penetration, so Zayn slips a finger tentatively into the warm, inviting space, hesitantly moves his finger in and out slowly, listens in wonder as Harry moans and begs Zayn to fuck him.

He has lost his hard-on, however. Harry sees; Harry sees everything. He turns over, disappointment evident in his every move. “Well, Zayn, do you not find me attractive enough?” His eyes glitter in the light from the windows. He knows this isn’t why. He knows he is beautiful.

“No! Harry, no, it’s not that. I always bottom--you just startled me, and I guess I got too nervous about doing it.”

And Harry could, at this point, have been kind in the way he has been for weeks. He could have understood that Zayn was used to taking the more passive role and wasn’t prepared for anything different tonight, that he could have prepared him better, hinted before stating. But Harry doesn’t do those things. He has offered Zayn a gift, and Zayn has refused it. Harry hasn’t bottomed in years, and now he’s facing a flaccid cock and a jittery, awkward boy who suddenly is nothing to him.

“Poor Zayn. You never fucked a girl, did you? You’ve never fucked anyone, you and your useless cock. Get dressed. Wipe off your mouth and eyes before you leave here. If I want to see you again, I’ll call you.”

And Zayn, at this point, could have been strong in a way he’s never been. He could have told Harry that he was ill-prepared, that he changed the rules without explaining the new game. He could have asked what this meant, and why Harry was suddenly being cruel to him. He did none of these things. Instead, he goes into the master bath, looks at himself in the mirror, wipes away the pathetic attempt at looking beautiful for Harry, dresses, and leaves.

He goes directly to the studio. He has a key; he knows where the new exacto knives are kept. He needs the relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	3. Intimacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry whispers in his ear. “What do you want? Right now, what do you want?” His knowledgeable fingers caress Zayn’s face, and Zayn’s erection bumps against Harry’s He wants him, that above all. Harry’s curls also fall forward onto his face. His green eyes bore into Zayn’s golden brown ones. Zayn is first to drop his gaze. Sometimes Harry is too beautiful to look at, and right now he is soft and open and sensual. Right now he is at Zayn’s service.
> 
> “I want to cut you.”
> 
> It's just what it says. Be forewarned that Zarry will go down a dark path together in this chapter. If you are triggered by anything in the tags. stop reading now.

As Zayn turns the key in the lock of the studio, his mind is on the exact cuts he will make and how perfectly beautiful and symmetrical they will be. Perhaps it’s not surprising that Harry startles him, waiting there in the shadows.

“What are you doing, Zayn?” Harry hisses.

“How did you get here before me, Harry? Anyway you told me to go away.”

Harry looks uncertain. It’s a look Zayn has never seen on his face before, and his heart melts. Harry isn’t sure of something! But Zayn honestly doesn’t understand what.

“You hurt my feelings,” Harry admits. “I want to be beautiful for you, too, I want you to desire me, and then when I offered myself you didn’t want me.”

Zayn slides down the wall in the art school hall. This Harry is weak, and how can he be strong if Harry is weak? “I can’t help what my body did. My mind wanted you, but you know how hard change is for me. I was used to what we were doing. I was used to you taking care of me, checking over me, making sure I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Harry slides down the wall to sit next to Zayn, and he reaches a hand over to clasp his. He rubs Zayn’s knuckles gently, but for an agonizing minute he doesn’t say anything. Zayn waits for Harry to tell him he meant what he said before, that he’s useless and he doesn’t want him.

“I’m sorry, Z. I said I would take care of you, and then I scared you instead. I lashed out with words. It’s what I do. Let me fix it. What do you need right now?”

Zayn thinks,  _ I have nothing to lose. This man will send me away if I say the wrong thing. I should just say what I feel. _

“I need to cut.”

"Ok, baby, let’s cut."

Harry and Zayn go in the studio, where it’s quiet and they have to weave in and out of canvas covered easels. There’s a supply room; Zayn finds the new exacto knives and because tonight exists in some alternate universe where he and Harry are doing something Zayn only does alone and only in utter privacy, he tells Harry that he needs to replace the knives, that they are expensive.

“You know I’ll take care of it, Zayn.” Harry’s eyes glitter in the light from the shadeless windows.

Zayn is reassured; this is the Harry he knows, at least, and this other Harry, this partner in his most shameful moment, he will learn.

Harry asks, “What do we do? Do you always do it among the easels?” It is the most intimate question anyone has ever asked him. 

“Yes. I like to be in the presence of the art. It challenges me so much. I always think my peers are so much better than I am, but here I am, bleeding for them.” Zayn flushes at the revelation.

They are in the small supply room, breath mingling, standing close, Harry’s Tom Ford after shave wafting in the air, mingling with the slight dampness of Zayn’s hair and hoodie from walking over to the studio. Zayn feels Harry’s breath, ruffling the hair falling forward on his forehead. 

They move inches closer, and Zayn can feel Harry’s erection. He imagines turning, yanking down his skinnies and telling Harry to fuck him dry. That too would give him the pain he craves. That too would be intimate. But this is unbearably so.

Harry whispers in his ear. “What do you want? Right now, what do you want?” His knowledgeable fingers caress Zayn’s face, and Zayn’s erection bumps against Harry’s He wants  _ him _ , that above all. Harry’s curls also fall forward onto his face. His green eyes bore into Zayn’s golden brown ones. Zayn is first to drop his gaze. Sometimes Harry is too beautiful to look at, and right now he is soft and open and sensual. Right now he is at Zayn’s service.

“I want to cut you.”

Harry smiles, a dimple peaking out from his right cheek. Is he amused? No. “I want that too. Zayn, I need you to know that I’m very aroused right now, and I don’t have any idea what we’re doing.”

Zayn smiles back. “I don’t either, just you’re sharing something with me, and I have to tell you how to do it. See--you could have done that for me, with topping, tell me what to do. It’d be dead sexy, Harry. Next time, yeah?”

“Ok, baby. I’ll do it. But now--what do we do? You don’t usually take off your clothes, do you?”

“No, but you’re here. I want us to undress from the waist down. Everything--socks, shoes, pants, trousers.” Zayn feels intoxicated with the power of giving directions.

“Then I’m going to make a series of light cuts, very near your cock, Harry. You will need to stand very still, because you don’t want my hand to slip.”

Harry’s breath quickens. “How many cuts, Zayn? How deep? Will you suck them clean the way I did for you?”

“Yes, Harry, I’ll suck them until they stop bleeding. And then I’ll suck your cock.” He thinks for a moment that this is reckless, dangerous, ill-advised, that the only thing holding him back is Harry’s disapproval, but his cock says  _ do it now _ .

Quickly they undress in the half light of the studio. Harry sheds his Gucci jacket and loafers before dropping his trousers and his pants. He is wearing only a sheer white blouse with a pussy bow. It glitters faintly in the low light. His hair is tousled; his lips are red and kissable. His eyes are sleepy, as though he too is in a dream.

Zayn wiggles out of his kicks and his skinnies. He would laugh at the sight of the two of them, grown men standing in the dark, naked from the waist down, with their erect cocks out, but it’s unexpectedly sexy to see Harry half dressed. The vee of his groin is so beautiful. Zayn wants to cut it, and he’s going close as promised.

“Ok. I’m going to make the first cut, right here.” Zayn takes his forefinger and traces the line he will make with the exacto knife, running diagonally from Harry’s vee to the edge of his bush. He imagines the pops of blood appearing in the cut, Harry holding still, obedient to the one with the knife. He trembles, gets control of himself. “Are you ready, Harry?”

“You can see that I am. Don’t hurt me too much, Zayn,” he whispers. And Zayn looks up at him, eyes brimming.

“I don’t want to hurt you at all, Harry. I just want to share everything with you. I’m trying to trust you.”

“Ok, baby. Do it before I change my mind.”

Zayn takes the exacto knife in his hand. He breathes deeply, steadies himself. He makes the lightest of cuts along the line he made with this finger and hears Harry gasp. He looks up, and Harry’s eyes are glazed but watching. They both watch as the little balloons of blood pop up, quiver for a moment at their source, and then slowly began to trickle down Harry’s groin.

Zayn drops to his knees. He sucks on every point in the line. He licks the metallic taste of Harry’s blood. He thinks,  _ I know him now, inside and out. _

__

Harry sighs above him. “I might come, just from this. Don’t touch my cock. Cut me again.”

__

So Zayn makes a similar cut, a mirror of the first, but with a little more force, because this Harry understands about release, about how pain can help you transcend your silly, useless life. This time the blood wells more quickly and with more force. This time, Harry moans.

__

“It hurts, Zayn.”

__

“I know. I’m going to make it better.”

__

Again he licks the line from bottom to top, Harry’s erection brushing his cheek as he does. He sucks into the cut, moving his tongue up and down like a cat as he sucks. Harry is moaning high above him, but Zayn is lost in endorphins now too, He vaguely feels that Harry has grabbed his own cock, given it no more than two quick jerks, and then he is releasing on Zayn’s face. Zayn turns his eyes up, catching Harry’s gaze and his come. He has never felt closer to anyone in his life.

__

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't say this won't get darker. I didn't expect Harry to do what he did in this chapter. Right now they are telling the story. The usual disclaimer: these are characters that I created using a bit of the RL men. It's fiction entirely.


	4. More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I take care of you, but it’s in secret, isn’t it, baby, and all I really want to do is have you with me everywhere, and drape myself over you, and shout to the world, ‘Isn’t he the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen? He’s mine!’ but instead I barely touch you in public. Sometimes it’s physically painful to stand next to you without pulling you into my side. And when people look at you, I don’t care, man or woman, I want to snarl at them like a dog whose bone is being threatened--”_
> 
> _“Hey!”_
> 
> _Harry laughs a little. “I know, but that’s how I feel, like they will take you away from me, and you are all I want.”_
> 
> Zayn is still Harry's secret, but now they have shared secrets and a dark path they seem determined to walk down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: more blood play, more cutting  
> It's a lot, I think.  
> I don't cut, myself, but I have self-harmed, and I take this topic seriously. Obviously this is fiction and an exploration of how possibly two people who cared for each other at one time might have allowed what started as a release to become a bedroom kink and possibly more.  
> I don't know where this is going. I wish I did.

Zayn is aware, dimly, that what he and Harry are doing is not good. It’s as though he were stumbling around in the dark, and he reached out a hand for Harry to guide him back to the light, but instead he had pulled Harry down in the dark with him. And then instead of solving the problem in his Harry way, he had whispered to Zayn, “How did you know how much I like the dark?”

If Zayn has been tentative and timid about exploring his kinks, Harry is bold and enthusiastic. Zayn knows that Harry is dangerous, to himself and to Zayn, but he doesn’t know how to stop him or if he even wants to. He thinks about talking to Niall, his assistant, but Niall is so sunny and blonde and cheerfully Irish, such a lad, that he thinks he would ruin their relationship. He thinks about talking to Louis, who has his own darknesses, but he knows that Harry would feel betrayed if he did.

Meanwhile, they have graduated from exacto knives--too crude, too wide a blade--to straight razors, and Harry has been talking about ordering a set of surgical scalpels. Zayn has no idea why Harry is pursuing this so avidly, until finally he does.

They are lying in bed. They have a huge, soft beach towel under them that they now use whenever they “play,” and this is what Harry asks Zayn when he wants it, “Want to play, Zayn?” They are lying on top of the towel, and they’ve already made matching cuts along each other’s ribs, three long slanting cuts that Harry admired for a little too long and a little too intently, and Zayn has finally topped, because the cuts had made him so hard, and the look in Harry’s eyes had made him feel so wanted, that he himself had flipped Harry over on his bleeding front, he had fumbled for the lube where Harry always kept it, he had slipped on a condom when the touch of his own hand on his own cock was almost unbearable, and then he had slathered himself with lube, the condom reducing the sensations enough to make it possible. He muttered, “Get on your knees, Haz,” and then he pulled Harry’s cheeks apart and slammed in. 

For a brief moment he thought Harry would cry out or tell him to stop or complain somehow, but this is not where they are, and instead Harry moans deep and long, and pushes back against Zayn’s cock, and then Zayn is hunched over Harry’s back, snapping his hips in quick, hard strokes, blood dripping from his own ribs onto Harry’s back, looking black in the moonlight, looking like everything beautiful. He wants to lick up his own blood, but he can’t reach it, so he reaches around Harry to his dripping ribs and comes back with a bloody finger. He sucks it into his mouth, and then he is groaning and chanting, Harry, Harry, Harry, fuck, oh, ah, I’m going to come on your back now. He wants to be gentle at least pulling out, but he can’t, he’s out of control, and instead he yanks himself out as quickly as he slammed himself in, pulls the condom off hard enough that it flies halfway across the room, will have to be found later, and then a couple of quick strokes and he’s coming onto Harry’s back, the mixture of his own blood and semen against Harry’s pale broad back so beautiful that he has to turn his head away. He wants to smear it all in; he wants Harry to drink it from his cupped hand. He has no idea what they are doing now, except that it’s both a call and an answer for him, and he doesn’t want to give it up.

Harry had come all over his own stomach, untouched, and when Zayn had flipped him over he found blood and semen on Harry’s front. He felt such tenderness for him in that moment, for this powerful man who had allowed himself to be sullied so in chasing sensation. He doesn’t understand, and he wants to. He gets that for him cutting is a way of dealing with the stress of school and feeling less than the posh boys around him whose parents are paying their fees, and his anxiety and his general sense of discomfort in his own skin. But why does Harry do it? He’s rich, he’s powerful, he has powerful friends, he’s desirable. He travels all the time for his job as a consultant to wealthy clients building art collections, to auctions and estate sales and sometimes even archaeological sites, so he sees the world. There is nothing in his outward appearance to suggest that Harry isn’t succeeding beautifully at life. Zayn knows people, models and celebrities and musicians and actors, like to be seen with him, because of his charm and his quirky and androgynous beauty. What does he need that he doesn’t get from his life? So Zayn resolves to ask, and the timing is perfect. They are floating on an ocean tide of endorphins, blissed out and sated.

The beach towel is below them. Their cuts are disinfected, coated in neosporin, and then covered in bandages. Zayn is huddled against Harry’s warm side, luxuriating in the feeling of Harry’s fingers on his scalp, scratching in just the way he likes. 

He hesitates, but somehow in this moment of intimacy he thinks he can ask Harry anything.

“Harry--I know why I do this, I mean, why I cut, but why are you doing this?”

Harry is quiet for a while, and his fingers never stop moving on Zayn’s scalp. Finally he sighs. “I’ve thought about it, baby, a lot, and I guess it’s a way to deal with the pressure of being the perfect guy that everyone thinks I am. You know? My taste has to be impeccable in my purchases for demanding clients, and I have to be utterly polite, even with the worst assholes, and I have to sound posh and London even though I’m from the North too. I have to go out with women, even though I only want to fuck men, because in my world it’s okay to have a three way but there always has to be a woman, and she always has to be the focus, so I’m constantly pretending. You know?” He stops scratching Zayn’s scalp and tilts his head toward him. “Do you understand, Zayn?”

“Yeah, I guess. Your life just looks so perfect, and you take care of me besides.”

“I take care of you, but it’s in secret, isn’t it, baby, and all I really want to do is have you with me everywhere, and drape myself over you, and shout to the world, ‘Isn’t he the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen? He’s  _ mine _ !’ but instead I barely touch you in public. Sometimes it’s physically painful to stand next to you without pulling you into my side. And when people look at you, I don’t care, man or woman, I want to snarl at them like a dog whose bone is being threatened--”

“Hey!”

Harry laughs a little. “I know, but that’s how I feel, like they will take you away from me, and you are all I want.”

He winces a little as he turns on his side toward Zayn and the bandages pull. “I know we shouldn’t do this, but until I saw you do it I didn’t know I needed it. And then I thought,  _ oh, I’ll just help Zayn, I’ll get him to stop _ , but I knew on some level it was a lie, that I just needed an excuse to start myself. And honestly, Zayn, have you ever had better orgasms? The combination of blood and semen loss is just…..it’s just sexy and hot and I can’t stop.”

Zayn nods. He couldn’t stop either. He’d like to do more, if Harry will, and this Harry seems willing to do anything.

“Haz?”

“What, baby? What do you need?”

“You know that time I wore a little makeup, and then...well, you remember.”

“Yeah, I do remember. I was so hurt and angry, and I lashed out at you, but it turned out to be for the best, yeah?”

Zayn nods, and he turns his doe eyes up to meet Harry’s. “But the makeup--you said you’d like me in full makeup. Do you still think that?”

Harry groans and rolls onto his back. “You’re like a wet dream, baby. You’re everything I didn’t know I needed, and then you give it to me, and I realize how much I wanted it all along. Yes. I’d love to see you in full makeup.”

“And Harry?” Zayn runs a finger carefully up Harry’s side, over the bandages with just enough pressure to make Harry gasp. “What if I were to wear some pretty things? I love the silk pants, but maybe a silk slip, maybe stockings…..and all in white?” He casts his eyes down, lets his eyelashes flutter against his upper cheeks, because Zayn is learning his power over Harry, and he wants this, he has been wanting this.

Harry carefully turns Zayn on his side facing him, and he presses his full body against him, and Zayn can feel that he has an erection, again, and then he hears Harry’s low, maple syrup voice murmur, “Yes, Zayn, yes of course. I’ll buy you all the pretty things, and then we’ll ruin them. Is that what you want?”

It is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still with me, thanks for reading. Tell me what you think.


	5. A Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry invites Zayn over on a Wednesday evening when the air is warm and everyone in London is out and about. He says to come quickly, that he has presents for Zayn. His text ends: you want to play, don’t you Zayn? 
> 
> Zayn always wants to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their path is heading someplace dark, but this chapter doesn't get there yet. It's sort of an interlude. Usual disclaimers--none of this happened, and these characters could not be more fictional. Read the tags please.

I've been to that grove

Where no matter the source is

And I walked it off: how long I'd last

Sore-ring to cope, whole band on the canyon

Cause the days have no numbers

Well it harms it harms me it harms, I'll let it in.

Bon Iver, “00000 Million” 

Harry invites Zayn over on a Wednesday evening when the air is warm and everyone in London is out and about. He says to come quickly, that he has presents for Zayn. His text ends:  _ you want to play, don’t you Zayn?  _ Zayn shivers in the warm air of his apartment. He knows how tonight will start, but he doesn’t know how it will end. He feels languorous and listless, as though he’s been lying out in the sun all afternoon, drinking aperol spritz and smoking endless cigarettes. For a moment, he imagines lying out somewhere with Harry, on a yacht or Ibiza. Harry is wearing a speedo and nothing else; Zayn keeps an arm slung across his chest or a leg over his, claiming him, as the young boys go by looking at him longingly. Their skin pinks up in the bright sun. Zayn will be caramel brown by evening, but he smears SPF 50 over every inch of Harry’s skin, laughing as the bulge of his dick fattens at Zayn’s touch. They don’t have any scars, nor any desire to cut. They are alone in paradise, surrounded by beautiful people and sea breezes. Zayn sighs. It’s a pretty picture. He longs to be in the light somewhere with Harry, someplace bright and light and full of sound. He knows Harry would take him; he has only to ask. But they are in the dark place, and it pulls at Zayn, holds him tightly down, keeps a buzz of arousal humming in his veins whether he’s with Harry or with Louis or in class. It’s always there, the thought that tonight might be the night. In their dark place, the only sounds are their gasps and moans and calling out for each other. Zayn clings to Harry in the dark place as his only anchor.

He prepares for Harry. He shaves his legs, all the way up to his groin, and then after thinking about it trims his pubes short and shaves the sides and top into a neat vee. His cock is hard the whole time, imagining Harry’s reaction, imagining where he might want to mark him in this state. He lines his eyes with kohl, even though he knows that Harry has bought everything he wants on Zayn’s face, and he puts on a sheer shirt that Harry bought him a few weeks ago, after he had cut him under each nipple.

“If I wear this, people will see the cuts,” Zayn says simply, not caring what Harry’s reply will be.

“They won’t. No one expects them, and anyway we’ll go somewhere dark if you wear this out. It’s really for me, baby. I like to see my work on you.” His smile is tender and full of affection, and Zayn thinks in that moment,  _ I would die for him. I would let him kill me if he wanted to do it. _ And Zayn hasn’t worn the shirt, but tonight feels right. His cuts have healed; Harry is meticulous about after-care, and so far they’ve been controlled and haven’t cut too deep. Zayn has wanted to ask Harry to go deeper but he hesitates for fear of scaring him away.

He likes the feel of the sheer fabric irritating his nipples and making them peak. He slips on Harry’s favorite black skinnies and his own favorite Docs before standing in front of his full-length mirror to see how he looks. His hair has gotten longer, and it flops onto his forehead. He has bleached sections pink, and now, even though his frame is slight, his hair and face have a feminine cast, and his shirt is clearly meant for a woman, he thinks he looks dangerous. He looks like someone who gives zero fucks, and that’s about right. He’s ready for whatever transformation Harry has planned.

As always, Harry opens the door, runs his eyes over Zayn from head to toe, and then allows a crooked smile, dimple creasing his cheek, looking for all the world like an angel sent to Earth to ease humanity’s suffering. He  _ is _ an angel. Most nights he eases Zayn’s suffering and carries him from the ordinary world into a state of ecstasy. Zayn is addicted, he knows. He says nothing, though, only, “Do I look okay?”

“Don’t fish for compliments, baby. You know how you look. I should start sending a car for you. You’re not safe on the street. If I saw you myself, I would ravish you on the spot. I wouldn’t be able to control myself. Come in--don’t make me wait any longer. I have such plans for us.”

As usual, Harry is wearing a silk dressing gown, this time of a emerald green that deepens and intensifies the color of his eyes. As usual, he lets it fall from his shoulders and stands before Zayn, naked and fully erect. The light from the windows on either side of the door bathes him in gold, and Zayn wants to fall to his knees in worship. He says it aloud; he has the habit, these days, of praising Harry. “Harry, babe, you look so beautiful standing there. I want to worship your body. Let me just suck you for a little while, yeah? Before anything else?”

And Harry takes pity on him, motions Zayn down with a single graceful gesture, lets Zayn crawl to him across the foyer, open his mouth wide, and swallow him whole. He feels greedy, like there must be more of Harry that he can reach and consume, but he contents himself with deep throating Harry’s cock, letting it fill his mouth and jut into his throat. He no longer gags; he just accepts, allows his throat to relax while keeping his tongue flexed and moving. He hears Harry moan his name:  _ Zayn _ . He says it like a benediction, and then he is holding Zayn’s hair in a fist and thrusting, thrusting into his waiting mouth. Zayn feels the tickle of Harry’s pubes and wonders vaguely if Harry will like what he’s done with his own, but then he is swallowing hot streams of come, drinking it like nectar. It always tastes clean and sweet to Zayn, and he’s always eager for it.

If they were at a different place in their affair, if they were a different couple altogether, that might be it, an orgasm like that. Harry might pull Zayn to his feet, laughing about how it’s a good thing he’s already prepared dinner. He might kiss him open-mouthed to get a taste of himself, joke that he’s delicious, no wonder Zayn loves to suck him off. But this is Harry, and this is Zayn. This exchange in the hall is a prelude to the full symphony that awaits. Harry collapses onto the floor in front of Zayn, runs his hands under his sheer shirt, uses his fingernails to make long stripes down Zayn’s back, mutters, “Well, that was a nice appetizer, but you’ve just made me want more, you know that, don’t you, Zayn, how having you just makes me want you more? How do you do it?”

Zayn looks at him helplessly. “I don’t know, Haz. I just always want you, and having you doesn’t help. It just makes me want you more. It’s scaring me a little.”

“Don’t be scared, baby. Didn’t I say I’d take care of you? Wait till you see what I have planned.”

He rises in a single motion, graceful as ever, and pulls Zayn to his feet, saying, “Leave it all here. I’m going to be in charge of everything that goes on or in your skin tonight, ok, baby? Do you trust me?”

The truly terrifying thing is that Zayn does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think.


	6. Session, Part One

Harry brings in the face paint on an antique black Chinese lacquer tray he bought for a client who decided only red would do. Everything is arranged neatly: foundation, powder, and blush to one side, eye shadow, liner, mascara, and brow pencil on the other. In the center, two tubes of lipstick suggest that Harry wants choices.

Under the makeup on the tray two sea serpents are intertwined, yellow-green scales glimmering faintly. It’s impossible to tell if they are embracing or battling to the death. Zayn supposes they’re almost the same thing.

He is sitting on the marble counter of the master bath, so often where their play sessions start or end. He doesn’t want to look as Harry works on him; when Harry offers, he says only he prefers to wait for the final product. He is already shaved with the straight razor, the warm lather and Harry’s slow, honeyed tones lulling him into a state of half sleep. It’s as though he’s underwater. Only Harry’s voice is sharp and clear.

He closes his eyes as Harry spreads liquid foundation on the pad of his thumb and dips the forefinger of his right hand in to smooth it gently and carefully over Zayn’s face a bit at a time. When he dares a glance, he sees the furrow between Harry’s brows as he concentrates on getting the makeup blended in just right. He feels so fond of him, of how hard he works to make everything perfect for everyone else, that his heart clenches in his chest. Harry cares so much.

Harry’s touch is like feathers on Zayn’s face, almost tickling him as his agile fingers continue to transform Zayn into a new creature. He dabs a cream blush onto Zayn’s already blushing cheeks, he smooths powder eye shadow over Zayn’s lids with a soft as a baby bum brush. Itfeels like foreplay. He uses a brow brush and powder to emphasize the sweep and length of Zayn’s eyebrows before applying coat after coat of Yves St. Laurent mascara ( _ it’s the best, baby, it will make your lashes look thicker, if that’s possible _ ). Zayn is wearing only a towel over his shoulders and his new silk pants, white with a delicate pink rosette at each hip. They are tight in the crotch but loose at the hem of the bum, so that they ride up and expose him to the cold of the counter. He is grateful for the respite from the heat building in him, every touch of Harry’s a caress, an invitation to let go, let go. From time to time, Harry brushes a finger across Zayn’s growing erection and smiles. 

Before he adds lipstick he moves in closer between Zayn’s spread thighs and kisses him deeply, tongue to tongue, and Zayn understands what romance novelists mean when their heroines swoon. He feels light-headed and in a state of erotic tension that grows every time Harry touches him. He is even more eager to move to the next scene, so he purses his lips obediently as Harry carefully brushes on color (“I think I’m going with a deep pink, Zayn, red doesn’t really match the neutral palette I’ve been building here). Finally, he says, “Look, baby. Look at yourself.” He pulls Zayn off the counter and cups a hand under his chin. “Look.”

Zayn looks. His hair is blown straight, and its thickness comes down to his brows in chunks of black and pink. His lips are plump and inviting. He doesn’t look like a woman; he looks _better_. The words escape him even as he tries to hold them back: “Harry, I look perfect.”

“You are perfect, love. You are always perfect, but now anyone can see it, from miles away. I wish I could take you out like this. I’d keep my hands on you all night and watch every man and woman we see envy me. We’d create a trail of lust across London.” Harry laughs, and his eyes sparkle at the thought of being so bold, so openly sensual with his lover.

Harry’s hands slip the towel from Zayn’s shoulders, and Zayn can see that Harry is as hard as he is, again, cock straining against the drawstring silk trousers that, Zayn suspects, are his only garment. There is a wet spot where the head of Harry’s cock has leaked and stained the fabric. Again, Zayn wants to fall to his knees and mouth at his cock through the trousers, to yank them down to expose him, to open his mouth for Harry to fill out. Harry reads his thoughts, though; he says, “Uh uh uh! I just made up those lips, baby! You’re not even dressed yet! Patience, my love.”

But Zayn is anything but patient. He is burning up with desire, and Harry fuels it by running fingers along the edge of the loose hemmed back of his pants, marveling at the softness of his bum, the sleekness of his shaved legs. Zayn is very close to begging, but he knows how much Harry hates for him to beg.

He says only, “What now, Harry? May I put on my pretty things so you can ruin them? Ruin me?”

Harry moans low in this throat at Zayn’s words, feeling his control slip at the hopeful tone. This lovely creature wants to be ruined, and Harry wants to ruin him. He thinks of the sterile surgical knife waiting on a tray beside the bed in the play room, where the mattress is covered underneath and a soft beach towel protects them on top. He washes the push the boundaries tonight, from something light and sexy and harmlessly arousing to something… more, something he’s not sure of. He wants to lose control, just a bit.

“Go in the guest room and put on the pretty things I’ve laid out for you, baby. Everything is white, like you wanted. I masturbated today, thinking of how you’ll look in these things.”

Harry never talks about jacking off, only that Zayn should do it, and now Zayn imagines Harry looking at his pretty things, his silk slip, his stockings, his bra, he doesn’t know exactly. He sees come and blood marring their pure beauty, and he wants to get started. His body is humming with desire, and he trembles when he cups Harry’s chin, looks into his eyes, and says only, “I’ll be waiting for you, love, thinking of what you’ll be doing to me and trying not to come from desire alone.”

Zayn carefully laces the corset that surprised him on entering their play room--it laces in front, which is a godsend, and it stops just below his nipples, which have been hard ever since he arrived at Harry's. He pulls the soft slip up over his smooth legs and hooks the straps over his shoulders--the corset is so smooth that it’s barely visible under the heavier weight of the slip, and his nipples tent the fabric tantalizingly. He doesn’t see stockings; maybe Harry decided that his smooth legs didn’t require them. Zayn sits on the edge of the bed, aware of his cock, the feel of silk against his feverish skin, his nipples rubbing and rubbing against the fabric of the slip, the way the corset has made of his already small waist something tiny and fragile.

It’s then he sees it: a stainless steel tray with three surgical scalpels. His erection falters then returns full force--Harry is going to do some serious cutting tonight, and Zayn wants it. He meant it when he thought that he would die for him, and part of him wishes that Harry would just do it. _But please, Harry, please let me come first,_ he thinks. He feels the way he did as a child when he had pneumonia, as though everything that is happening to him is happening underwater. Movements are slow; sounds are muffled. He’s aware only of his own body and his inability to breathe.


	7. Session, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He remembers surfing at Bondi once, and being hit with a big wave. It felt something like this, like he was powerless to do anything but let the wave have him. His desire has him. It’s had him for a while now.  
> It’s so hard to know where the line is, but Harry thinks he’s crossed it. He has fucked up so bad. He didn’t mean to hurt Zayn. He would never hurt Zayn.
> 
> TW: heavy cutting, unintentional violence, diminished capacity to make decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't read this if bloodplay squicks you, or if you are easily upset by a beloved character (we all love our Zayn, don't we?) being injured. Oh, Harry. You didn't mean to.

Zayn lays himself out on the bed, head on pillows, arms relaxed and wide, knees open and his erect cock on full display. He is leaking onto his beautiful silk pants; he wants to squirm, but instead he breathes deeply and dreams of blood.

When Harry comes back, he stops at the door to look at the picture Zayn presents: masculine/feminine, strong/weak, dominant/submissive. He is a study in contrasts. The tension in the room is too much. Harry goes to the tray and selects the smallest scalpel. 

“Baby, where shall I cut you first? What about your sternum, right between those beautiful nipples that I can see are just waiting for me to pinch and bite?”

Zayn cannot breathe; he cannot. He just  _ wants _ . Finally, he takes a shuddering breath so that he can sigh out, “Yessss, do it, Harry. Please. Do it to me. Do whatever you want.” He feels the soft silk against his skin and wants it soaked. He cannot bear this any more; he needs release.

“We haven’t used scalpels before, have we, baby? We should be careful. They’re so sharp and dangerous. I might cut you too deeply if I’m not very very cautious and steady-handed, but how can I be cautious when you look like that, lying there?”

Scalpel in hand, Harry presses himself against Zayn’s side. His breath is short, too. They are painfully hard, shaking, reckless. Harry makes the first cut.

It doesn’t feel deep. It doesn’t even hurt.. But immediately blood wells in the cut and drips down onto Zayn’s corset. He watches, fascinated, as the laces turn red-tinged. “Oh!” he says to Harry, “my god, that’s so beautiful, Harry, keep going.”

And Harry does. They are underwater, in a fantasy, where nothing matters and nothing counts. Harry makes cuts all over Zayn’s chest, one, two, three four. The blood is flowing freely now, soaking through Zayn’s pretty silk slip. He writhes with desire. “Take the slip off me, babe. Take everything off me. Please.”

And Harry is obedient to the rush of Zayn’s erotic enticement. He cuts the straps of the slip, he cuts the laces of the corset, he cuts the sides of the pants, and then he pushes the garments to either side, displaying Zayn’s bleeding nakedness. He licks and sucks at Zayn’s chest.

“More cuts, Harry. I’m going to come right now if you don’t cut me. Please, all down my front. Go all the way to the top of my vee.”

Harry is delirious with desire. He no longer is exercising judgment or discernment or rational thought. He takes the scalpel and makes one long continuous cut from between Zayn’s nipples to the top of his vee. Blood seeps out immediately, and Harry watches in horror. “It’s too much, baby, we need to stop.”

“No, Harry, don’t stop. Lick it up, and then fuck me. Fuck me.”

Harry does it. He wants to. He wants Zayn to cut him, too, but he can’t wait. At this point, the only thing real to him is Zayn’s voice, and the only thing real to Zayn is the red blood painting the front of his body and his aching cock and hole. He is only need.

Harry reaches blindly for the lube in the bedside drawer while he licks and sucks his way down Zayn’s body, hearing Zayn’s voice praising him and urging him on: “That’s it, Harry, make me feel it. Lick it all up and then fuck me. Put my legs over your shoulders and fuck me.”

Harry sees that his licking and sucking are not keeping up with the flow of blood, but he’s beyond caring. He slathers lube on his erection and lines himself up. He doesn’t ease in. Instead, in one swift move, he buries himself inside Zayn. He lowers his chest to Zayn’s, painting himself red in the process. They are blood and desire, madness.

Harry starts pumping hard, Zayn’s legs over his shoulders and his pretty pink hole, shaved smooth, gaping open to accommodate him. It feels spectacular. Everything is wet. Everything is heated. He didn’t use a condom, so there is nothing between him and Zayn.

He is overwhelmed by how good it feels, by how close he feels to Zayn. It’s a high, and he’s floating on it.

Harry closes his eyes, trying to stave off orgasm, but within a couple of minutes he is coming anyway, wave after wave. When the last wave subsides, he opens his eyes to look at Zayn and is stunned to see that Zayn’s wounds are bleeding freely.

“Fuck! Zayn, are you okay? Baby, you’re really bleeding! Let me get some towels.”

Zayn smiles. “It felt so good, Haz. I felt like we were one person, my heart beating in time to your pumping. I loved it. I love you.”

Harry’s eyes fill with tears. “Let me get some towels, baby. You’re really bleeding.”

By the time Harry gets back with towels and disinfectant and gauze and tape, prepared to be a good and careful boyfriend, Zayn is a little pale. He couldn’t be bleeding that much, though. Harry’s sure he didn’t nick an artery or anything. The flow isn’t  _ that _ heavy. For ten minutes he tries to staunch the flow. For ten minutes, Zayn smiles and reassures him, “It’s okay, Harry. I feel so good. I don’t mind what happens. I really don’t care. Just let me bleed out….”

At that, Harry knows that Zayn is not a reliable reporter of his own condition. He looks at his own bloody chest, at the come dripping from Zayn’s hole, at Zayn’s bloody chest, still spurting blood slowly, at his pale but lovely made up face.

If he takes Zayn to the hospital, it will be a scandal. Everything about this is scandalous. All it would take is one tabloid listening to a police scanner, and Harry Styles will no longer be Harry Styles. He looks at Zayn, searches his eyes. “Baby?”

“It’s okay, Harry. I’m not hurting. I feel so good. I love you, I love you so much.” Zayn’s eyes overflow with tears, and Harry follows suit, again, feeling the love and the lust like a wave that has engulfed them. He remembers surfing at Bondi once, and being hit with a big one. It felt something like this, like he was powerless to do anything but let the wave have him. His desire has him. It’s had him for a while now. 

It’s so hard to know where the line is, but Harry thinks he’s crossed it. He has fucked up so bad. He didn’t mean to hurt Zayn. He would never hurt Zayn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still reading, thanks for sticking with me. Comments are very welcome, especially at this juncture of the story. I am pretty upset myself, so I can only imagine if you're reading.


	8. Aftermath I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the emergency operator takes his address and says that an ambulance will arrive shortly. Harry picks up Zayn’s phone, reminding himself to take it with him to hospital. He goes to his bathroom and wipes off his chest and hands, cleaning away Zayn’s blood that until half an hour ago had seemed so erotic painted on his skin. He looks in the mirror and notices he is crying.
> 
> Quickly, Harry puts on track pants and a sweatshirt of his own, slipping his feet into loafers and grabbing his keys and his own phone for the other pocket. His hands shake, but he gets everything he and Zayn need, for now. All the while, in his head a mantra repeats itself over and over, let him be okay, let him be okay.
> 
> Harry and Zayn finally go too far down the dark path they chose. The consequences were natural, if only they could have seen them coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have borrowed "Harry" and "Zayn" as characters. All the rest is from my own twisted mind. Don't know, don't own, etc.

**Chapter 8 Aftermath I**

_ Not long after saying “I love you” to Harry, Zayn falls asleep, or lapses into unconsciousness. Harry isn’t sure which. He debates what to do for a few precious minutes longer. _

_ Finally, Harry wipes Zayn’s face clean of makeup. He’s not proud of the delay, but he tells himself that when he calls Zayn’s family, and he will have to, he doesn’t want to add these kinks to the short, horrifying list they will have to hear about. It’s for Zayn, he reasons. He wraps gauze tightly around Zayn’s chest, covering all the wounds that he can, but he sees that the long cut from sternum to groin is still bleeding freely. He honestly doesn’t know how much blood loss is dangerous. It might be ok--but it might not. _

_ When Zayn’s face is clean, Harry slips the soiled silken things from under his body and dresses him in regular men’s pants. He pulls up trackies and pulls a sweatshirt over his head. He puts socks on his feet. Then, at last, he calls 999. _

_ “What is the nature of your emergency?” _

_ “It’s my friend. He’s been badly cut, and the bleeding won’t stop.” _

_ “Where is the location of the cut?” _

_ “It’s down his chest. There’s more than one. Can you send an ambulance?” _

_ “Yes, sir, but you need to tell me more about what happened. How long ago did he suffer the injury?” _

_ “Maybe half an hour?” _

_ “And do you know what was used to cut him?” _

_ “Yes, a surgical scalpel.” _

_ “Can you estimate the average depth of the cut?” _

_ “I don’t know! Why are you asking me so many questions! I can’t stop the bleeding! Is he going to die?” _

_ “Are the cuts deep, sir? Do they go entirely through the epidermis?” _

_ Harry is so frustrated with the operator that he grits his teeth before replying. “No, they aren’t that deep, maybe half a centimeter at most. There are just a lot of them, and they keep seeping blood. I tried staunching them, but they won’t stop. Please send an ambulance.” _

_ Finally, the emergency operator takes his address and says that an ambulance will arrive shortly. Harry picks up Zayn’s phone, reminding himself to take it with him to hospital. He goes to his bathroom and wipes off his chest and hands, cleaning away Zayn’s blood that until half an hour ago had seemed so erotic painted on his skin. He looks in the mirror and notices he is crying. _

_ Quickly, Harry puts on track pants and a sweatshirt of his own, slipping his feet into loafers and grabbing his keys and his own phone for the other pocket. His hands shake, but he gets everything he and Zayn need, for now. All the while, in his head a mantra repeats itself over and over,  _ let him be okay, let him be okay _. _

_ Something about him must convince the EMTs that he can’t be left behind, because they allow Harry into the back of the ambulance, motioning him to a metal box where he can sit, more or less out of the way. He watches as they gently pull off the sweatshirt Harry had put Zayn in just minutes ago and unwrap the gauze from around his body. His cuts are still oozing blood, and he is still silent, seemingly asleep. The EMTS examine the wounds, asking Harry again, “What caused these, sir, if you know?” _

_ “A surgical scalpel.” _

_ The men look at each other but not at Harry. They know. It’s probably not even the first time they’ve taken a call like this, from someone kinky like Harry, someone who liked seeing blood on his partner’s body, liked licking it, liked fucking with it seeping from the wounds that he created, the sick asshole. He’s sick, Harry thinks. He doesn’t deserve Zayn or anyone. He is the dominant partner. He could have stopped them. Tonight never needed to happen. _

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When Zayn wakes, at first he doesn’t know where he is. He feels something pulling at the skin of his hand and glances down to see the IV held in place with white surgical tape, and then he sees the white gauze that covers him from under his nipples to his cock, all white. He is returned to a state of innocence, he thinks. Nothing bad happened.

He knows his mum is in the room when she leans over him, eyes full of tears. “Zayn! You’re awake! We’ve been so scared! The doctors said your, um, injuries weren’t life-threatening, but you were passed out and nothing seemed to wake you. I’m so glad to see you’re awake, baby!” She turns from him to make calls to his father and sisters, his aunts and uncles. Their big family will all know something happened.

_ Baby _ . Where is Harry? He thinks that maybe he can’t ask. He doesn’t remember anything beyond having a mind-blowing orgasm with Harry buried in him, bare, pumping in rhythm with Zayn’s heartbeat, his cuts making Rorschach patterns in blood over his chest and groin. He remembers his own surrender to desire; he remembers thinking that it didn’t matter if he lived or died, because he had had this love. He needs him here, now. He has to know.

“Mum? Is anyone else here?”

“If you’re talking about the man who did this to you, then no, he’s not here. He’s been arrested. You just have to file charges against him. He’s a pervert, baby. Did he kidnap you? Do you know him?”

“Your roommates said you left alone last night about 6, and that you’ve been spending a lot of nights away from the apartment. Is he--I don’t know how to say this, Zayn. Is this man your… boyfriend? Do you care about him? The hospital says he called 999 and rode with you in the ambulance.”

Zayn sighs. He doesn’t remember anything, and he wants to protect Harry, but the worst has already happened if Harry has been arrested. He will have to tell.

“Yes, Mum. He’s not my boyfriend, exactly. He’s my lover. I...I’ve been having a hard time in school, Mum. It’s very stressful and I don’t have any close friends except Louis. We’re the only working-class lads there, Mum, they’re all posh boys, and they make fun of our accents, but the profs like my work and praise me, and then it makes it worse…” Zayn is crying freely now, grateful to confess everything that has been weighing him down ever since he came to London. He tells his mum almost everything, how he started cutting and how Harry found him doing it, and how it became something they did together, and every word releases a little pressure in his chest until finally he is light as air, full only of relief. His mum has always understood him; she’ll understand him now.

He looks into her eyes, finally, and sees that they are filled with horror. She doesn’t understand, it seems. He has said too much or not enough. “Mum--you have to understand. Harry loves me. He was doing what I asked him to do. It’s not his fault!”

She looks at him pityingly. “Oh, honey. He’s eight years older than you, wealthy, established, successful. It’s entirely his fault. I know you think you care about him, but did anyone know you were seeing him? Louis says he knew you were seeing someone, but he never even knew his name. Did it never occur to you that there was something wrong about a relationship you didn’t talk about?”

But Zayn is stubborn. No, he hasn’t thought much about the secrecy or really anything other than when he would see Harry again, but that’s not Harry’s fault. It’s his fault. Harry mustn’t suffer for Zayn’s sins. He mustn’t.

“Mum, this isn’t Harry’s fault. I begged him.” He swallows, hating the words that have to come next. “And when he didn’t cut me deep enough, I begged him to do it harder. Do you understand, Mum? There’s something wrong with me, not Harry.” As he says it, he knows it’s true. He is sick and twisted; he has tainted Harry with his poison. He should be the one to pay.

A woman in a white coat comes in. “Ah, I heard you were awake. How are you feeling? Any pain?”

“No,” he mutters. “But I want to see the man who brought me here.”

He sees the doctor exchange glances with his mum. 

“I’m afraid that’s not possible right now. We need to keep you here for 24 hours for observation. Your wounds are not life-threatening, but they did require stitches. We want to watch you for infection and monitor your iron levels. You lost quite a bit of blood last night.”

“But my mum says they arrested Harry--he didn’t do anything. I cut myself. He tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t listen!”

His mum looks at him wide-eyed. “No, Zayn! That’s not what you told me. Harry cut him, he did! Don’t listen to him!”

“I didn’t want you to know the truth. I was going to kill myself--Harry stopped me. He’s good, he’s so good, he’s innocent, he didn’t do anything wrong.” Zayn is thrashing in the bed, trying to pull out the IV in his hand and to see if anything else is holding him down. He feels the stitches in his chest pull and pop, before his blood stains the pure white gauze of the bandages covering his chest. 

“You have to calm down, Mr. Malik,” the doctor says firmly. A nurse has come into the room, and she is adding something to the bag of fluid that attaches the IV to his hand. She picks up a syringe and injects the muscle of his arm with something, Zayn doesn’t know what it is, only that five minutes later, his vision dims and as hard as he fights to stay awake he rides the wave of chemicals into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for staying with this story. I think I see the light at the end of this particular tunnel, so maybe two more chapters. Comments appreciated, always.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully you read the tags and knew what you were getting into. This is of course entirely fictional. I don't know these men; I just find their dynamic fascinating. Kudos and comments are always welcome, especially on a topic like this. This fic started somewhere else but went here.


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